


Women's Revolutionary Law

by merisunshine36



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gaila was four, she and her clan sister escaped to freedom in the Federation. But freedom, like everything else, comes with a cost. This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Women's Revolutionary Law

I am in the middle of a dream, a good dream. I have a big bowl of _pular_ soup in front of me, and a stack of _k'gzzt_ bread to go with it. I rearrange my nest of resting cushions so that I might bring the food tray nearer to me. The spicy-sweet scent of the soup tickles my nostrils, and it is so painfully real that I pause a moment to better enjoy the heavy feeling of anticipation building inside me. But the scene rapidly melts away from my eyes as I'm brought back to reality by a sharp bite of pain in my left arm. And not the good kind of pain, either.

"Gailin, wake up! You're going to be late for work," insists a young voice, high and persistent in my ear. "You're going to be late _again_".

I crack my eyes open and see Gaila standing there. At six Standard years of age, she is the youngest of my clan sisters and the best alarm clock in the quadrant. She digs her sharp fingernails into my flesh once again, and the unpleasant sensation brings me fully into the present. I am no longer on the pleasure ship where I was born and raised, but in a tiny two-room flat in San Francisco, California, United States. The foods of my home planet Orion are far out of reach. You can't even grow _pular_ fruit here. Something in the atmosphere disagrees with it, causing it to rot the minute it's exposed to the air.

"Why do you insist on calling me Gailin?" I complain, bitter that I'm late for work, that I even have to go to work at all. The air in the apartment is cold--I can't afford to turn the heat on this early in the fall--and I press my hands between my thighs for warmth.

"Because that's your name, stupid," Gaila replies in perfect Standard, rolling her eyes. She is obsessed with Standard now, despite my repeated requests to ask her to speak Orion Prime at home.

My eyes fall on the tiny holoframe on the bedside table. It holds a picture of a small woman with brown skin whose fierce eyes glint beneath the mask she wears, and underneath it, a list of rules entitled, "[Women's Revolutionary Law](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zapatista_Army_of_National_Liberation#Women.27s_Revolutionary_Law)". I found the picture in a tiny gift shop at the spaceport where we first landed after our arrival in California. I felt guilty about stealing it at the time, but I had used all my credits just to make it to Earth, and couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind. I was unable to read all of the Standard words then, so I made Gaila translate it for me. She had always been good with languages.

The woman was [Comandante Ramona](http://www.bestcyrano.org/IMG/Comandanta_Ramona.jpeg) of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. She is my inspiration.

I glare at Gaila's retreating form as she returns to the tiny kitchen to finish making our morning meal. A mess of red hair tumbles down her back, tickling her skinny legs that peek out from beneath the oversized shirt she sleeps in. She's going to get sick dressing like that here. It's much too cold.

"Gailin is a slave name!" I shout from my sanctuary beneath the covers. "My name is Ramona now, do you hear me? Ramona!"

"Well, you have to be at work in fifteen minutes, _Ramona_!"

It is so hard to get respect these days.

* * *

 

My refugee status guarantees me a work visa, but I can't afford hormone suppressants right now and there are only so many places willing to hire me. I was lucky to find a job slinging drinks at a daybar down in the Castro, populated by species who only come out during the day. While the humans of the world toil away at their desks, the walls vibrate with the sound of our merriment. We're known around the city for our wild solar eclipse parties, where everyone revels in the rare opportunity to be awake while the world is still dark. The clientele is pretty easygoing, and the owner is willing to turn a blind eye whenever someone asks me if I want to make a few extra credits on the side. I don't always say yes, but if the energy bill is higher than normal or Gaila needs new clothes for school, I'll lead them down the road to a motel with clean sheets and thin walls and bring them to their knees with techniques that are the result of a lifetime classical training in the sensual arts. At least, that's how the ads liked to tell it.

It's my choice now, but I don't tell Gaila. She wouldn't be mad at me or anything, but still...I just don't. If I could take her down to Starfleet Medical and have them wipe her mind clean of everything that happened before we left, I'd do it in an instant.

 

* * *

Every year, at what would be the midpoint of the ninth cycle of E-lyna on Orion, we celebrate the Day of Liberation and Remembrance. I spend the two days before wandering around San Francisco to the few stores that carry Orion foods. I haggle with the storekeepers, usually tightfisted Ferengi. They demand ridiculous prices for what they are selling, but they know that I need it and are willing to hold out. Everything I buy is usually a little stale and old from the long journey to Earth, but it's good enough. I stay up all night cooking so that we can have a proper feast for the celebration of our freedom.

"You should let me cook something," Gaila whines. "I'm so much better at it than you."

She's right, but still I shoo her back into our sleeping room. "You need to study, so that you can be in Starfleet one day."

Her little face crumples. "But I don't want to go into Starfleet, I want to stay with you."

I scoop her into my arms, noting with a pang how bony she is. If she had remained on the ship, she would have been well fed. Every week, our clan mother would have pinched her arms to ensure she was sufficiently fat. Once she was old enough to take in work, our customers would want someone warm and soft to hold on to. But freedom, despite its name, is astonishingly expensive. I barely make enough to keep the lights on at night.

My voice is muffled as I bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair. "You must join Starfleet, so that you can bring our sisters back to us."

I made the decision to escape the ship after I learned through the gossip channels that I was to be sold deep within the Klingon Empire where no one would ever find me. The firstborn in every clan is the only fertile sister, making me an extremely valuable commodity. I began stealing from tiny trinkets from my clients, baubles that no one would miss. Over the months I was able to sell enough contraband that I could bribe my way into the Federation. I didn't have enough to bring my clan mother and sisters with me, and so made my plans in secret. Our mother was old, and the infertility of my sisters would keep them safe. I would have left Gaila behind too, but she woke up as I was trying to make my way quietly across the pile of soft bedding where we all slept. She grabbed me by the ankle with all of her four-year old strength, and begged to come with me. Already, the force of her personality had made her infamous on the ship. If I argued with her, there was no chance I wouldn't be caught.

We eat our morning feast in silence--the food is a pleasure too intense to disrespect with words. Comandanta Ramona sits with us at the head of the table, her dark eyes smiling. Every now and then, Gaila's swinging legs kick me underneath the table until I grab her feet and settle them in my lap. When we are finished eating, we read aloud from the Women's Revolutionary Law, followed by a moment of silence for the sisters who are lost to us. I've thought of trying to contact them many times, but I am afraid of what might happen to Gaila if I do. The risk is too great.

Gaiyel, Gairao, Gaiwu, clan mother Gaiseht a'Uron...we miss you.

 

* * *

When Gaila is nine Standard years old, she is invited to the birth celebration of one of her Human classmates named Nina. We have to do some research to find out what a "birthday party" is--on Orion, new births are accounted for, not celebrated. She remains excited even as I make her take an extra dose of the expensive medication that will suppress the hormonal output natural for Orion females of her age. She must take it in order to attend public school, but the drug makes her sleepy and causes the weight to fall from her body like water after a bath. I worry for her, but she seems happy.

I tie her hair up in complicated coils, ignoring the painful cramping in my hands. I have not done this in years, and at first I was afraid that I would forget how. I dot a small amount of perfume behind her ears, and kiss her on the nose before sending her outside when the mother of a classroom friend arrives to whisk the children away to their final destination.

I am nervous while she is gone, and clean our flat from top to bottom. What if her medication fails? What if the other children don't like her? What if the young girl is offended by the gift we have bought her--a delicate gold necklace that cost me the better part of a week's pay?

My worst fears are confirmed when she stomps back into our apartment, her face dark with anger. I wait patiently for the coming storm.

"It's not fair!" she explodes. "You never get me anything!"

The force of her childlike fury stuns me almost as much as if it were a physical blow. "I buy you everything you could ever need, Gaila--clothes, PADDs with all the books you could ever want, food, a roof over your head."

She flops down onto the bed we share, her face turned away from me. "But you never get me anything _good_. Nina got her own communicator, and a mini-replicator for her bedroom, and twelve dolls for her birth celebration. Twelve! I don't even have one."

"What do you need a doll for?" I ask, bewildered. "A doll will not help you pass your tests in school."

"Aghnnngh!" she shrieks, and pulls the cover over her head.

I am irritated with her now. "Gaila, if you are in the mood to act like a spoiled _male_, then our conversation is finished. I'm going to work."

"Fine! I don't care!"

Work is terrible that night. My head isn't on quite straight, and my boss sends me home early after I get four drink orders wrong in a row. I feel the way I did the time a strange woman from another clan came to stay on our ship, a refugee from a raid by Federation officials. I hated the way the smell of her skin made me itchy and aggressive. It was clear then that she didn't belong with us, and it is clear to me now that I will never truly belong on Earth.

Instead of returning home, my feet carry me to a large toy store. The lights inside are painfully bright, and I move quickly to avoid the curious questions of the help-bots patrolling the aisles. I finally find the dolls, but am quickly disappointed. There are hundreds of them--thousands, in row after row of brown, white, tan, and every shade in-between. They are tall and short, thin and fat...but none of them are green.

I snatch one off the shelf at random from among those wearing Starfleet uniforms.

I hate the doll as I carry it home. I hate the weight of it in my hands and the stupid smile on its stupid brown face. I hate that my credit account is now in the negative, and that it will probably take me another month until I have enough to pay off all the penalty fees. Gaila is just a child, her words should have no meaning. But they do.

She is still an angry lump under the blankets when I return home. I pull the doll out of its box and stare at it, thinking that it is even uglier in the dim lighting of the apartment than it was in the store. I carry it to the bathroom and sit it on the back of the toilet. Underneath the sink is a little drawer, and at the very bottom lies a single jar of green cosmetic paint. I had shoved it into my pocket at the last minute during our escape, worried that I wouldn't be able to find makeup in my particular shade of green once I was on Earth. I hadn't much use for it these days, so I strip the doll of her clothes and smear makeup all over her body until she is a healthy-looking chartreuse. Satisfied, I wait until it dries and then dress her in the miniature uniform once more.

"Hey, you," I say, poking at the Gaila-lump beneath the covers. "Wake up."

"What," she grumbles, her voice thick with sleep.

"I got you something. Don't you like it? It's just like you."

She sits up groggily and pushes the hair out of her face. Her eyes narrow when she catches sight of the doll in my outstretched hands. "Whaddaya mean, it's just like me? Orion on the outside and human on the inside? Is that what you mean?"

When I reached the age of my majority, clan mother Gaiseht told me that if I could ever find a way to avoid breeding, I should do so at any cost. I'm beginning to understand what she meant.

I kick off my shoes and climb into the bed with Gaila, where I pull her into the valley between my legs and place my cheek on her forehead. She stiffens at first, but I am patient. Eventually, she presses closer to me, and I sigh quietly.

"You are so silly, Gaila." I speak in Standard so she knows this is important, and because I like this word _silly_ and the way it slides over my tongue. "She's just like you because she is smart, and strong, and wonderful, and beautiful."

"...and because she enlisted in Starfleet, right?"

"Of course, because she's in Starfleet. We can't forget about Starfleet."

Gaila rolls her eyes at me, something she picked up from her human classmates. I tickle her on the soft skin of her waist, and my heart is warmed by the sound of her laughter.

 

* * *

I give the traditional call of praise when Gaila crosses the stage along with her classmates, a piercing high trill that causes many of the other parents in the audience to look at me in alarm. She is wearing a black robe that is the ugliest piece of clothing I have ever laid eyes on. She tried to explain to me that it is an American Earth tradition; it has something to with academic dress in a place called England, where the winter winds slip through the cracks in buildings made entirely of stone. I decided not to press the issue, although she agreed to let me bring the hem up past her knees so that everyone else could see her lovely legs. We also pinned a picture of Comandante Ramona to the back of her cap. The little green doll, now missing one of her boots and most of her hair due to Gaila's brief stint as an amateur hair stylist, sits in my bag.

She has been accepted into Starfleet Academy, where she will study Engineering. I could not be more proud of her.

Gaila turns and waves at me from her place on the stage, and all of the ugly black clothing in the world cannot hide the brilliance of her smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Discliamer: Star Trek and the character Gaila is owned by JJ Abrams/Paramount/CBS, no profit is being made from this. Gailin/Ramona is my own creation, and you are welcome to take her on other adventures. Story is archived at A03, please do not archive with out permission.


End file.
